


Try Not to Think About It

by orphan_account



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Sickfic, rectal thermometer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6150165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of those fics where Morse is ill and Thursday & DeBryn have to look after him. Rather unpleasantly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try Not to Think About It

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure how to warn for this one, but the squick potential is high. Non-consensual and highly invasive temperature-taking? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. My need to inflict terrible things on Morse is very great.

“There is another way,” DeBryn said, when they’d tried unsuccessfully for the fifth or sixth time to get Morse to unclench his jaws--Thursday cajoling and commanding him by turns, DeBryn trying to calm him by massaging the back of his neck, which apparently sometimes worked. Not this time. “Roll him on his side, get his trousers down a bit and keep him still for me. He won’t like it, but he may be too out of it to care.”

Thursday nodded and set about getting Morse into position--no time for being squeamish about it, he told himself sternly. He hoped DeBryn was right and Morse was too out of it to know what was going on. He didn’t object, at any rate, to being shifted about, though he made a slight noise of protest at having his pyjamas drawn down, whether from modesty or the chill, it wasn’t clear. His skin was hot as fire. 

“Morse, I’m going to have to take your temperature rectally,” DeBryn informed him, putting a dollop of Vaseline on the end of the thermometer. “This won’t feel very pleasant, I imagine, but it won’t last long. It’s important that you stay still, so Inspector Thursday is going to hold you steady.” He nodded to Thursday. “All right. And...alley-oop.” He reached down, spread Morse open and inserted the thermometer with one swift sure push. Thursday tried not to grimace.

Morse did care, apparently. Quite vehemently. His eyes went wide, wildly uncomprehending, and he bucked, hot and shivering in Thursday’s arms. “What are you-- no! Don’t, I don’t--”

“Hold him,” DeBryn said. “Don’t let him thrash. It could break. Morse, I know, but you need to keep still. You’ve got a raging fever; if we can’t get it down we’ll have to run you in to Casualty, and they’ll do worse than this to you there, I’m afraid. Hang in there. I’ll take it out in just another minute.”

“I don’t like this,” Morse announced shakily, still fighting it, squirming in Thursday’s grasp. “Please--”

“Easy, lad,” Thursday murmured. “You’ll be fine, I’ve got you. Relax and it won’t hurt you--try not to think about it, it’s only for a minute.” He stroked his thumb up and down Morse’s knife-sharp hipbone, concentrating on gentling him as if he were a hurt animal, trying to follow his own advice and not think about it. The heat of his bare skin was incredible; he’d never felt anything like it. At last, he felt Morse give in to it with a half-sob of misery, going limp and listless against him.

“Good, Morse,” DeBryn crooned, still holding the tip of the thermometer inside him. “That’s more like it. Thirty more seconds.” It felt longer than that to Thursday--an awkward eternity. Finally DeBryn said “Hold him again, please,” and Morse bucked slightly again and gave a whimper as the thermometer was drawn slowly and carefully out of his body. Thursday drew his pyjamas quickly back up over his quaking behind, restoring decency.

“One-oh-five point two,” DeBryn pronounced.

“Christ,” said Thursday, with feeling.

“It could be worse. Let’s wait and see if we can get it down at all. Cold packs on his neck and groin and under his arms, and we’ll take his temp again in half an hour. We’ll get you back to rights, Morse, even if it means you won’t like us very much for the next few hours.” DeBryn patted Morse’s legs briskly and went off to rummage through the kitchen.

Few _hours_? Thursday thought incredulously, but there was nothing for it and no use moaning. He looked down at Morse, curled on his side in a hot miserable heap, flushed and pale in splotches wherever his skin was visible. He had the worse of it, unquestionably, but Thursday couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit sorry for himself as well--he’d put in enough time worrying by bedsides with his own two, surely.

“Open your mouth next time, at least, won’t you? Stubborn wretch,” Thursday told him, pushing damp locks of hair away from Morse’s face. “It’s not as though that’s something you usually have any trouble with.” 

Morse stirred at the sound of his voice and opened his eyes for a moment, glittery-bright with fever and unfocused. “Sorry, sir,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut again, and that was just beyond the pale; Thursday couldn’t help leaning over then to press his lips against Morse’s forehead before DeBryn came back in, praying again that he’d remember none of this when it was all over. 


End file.
